Nights of Malta
by heyitsthattgirl
Summary: It's a quiet night in Malta, the successful job in Malaysia wrapped up, when Elena receives a few unexpected phone calls.


It's the quiet moments that stick, the soft brush strokes of orange and blue that bleed across the sky like watercolor, the gentle swell of a rising tide cresting against the old stonework of an ancient city on the sea. The rhythmic scratch of Nate's pencil against his journal as the daylight dies on the glassy horizon, images of sixteenth century architecture mixed with boxy modern busses beginning to appear on the pages. It's a habit, he says, an instinctive need to commit important things, cherished memories, to pages in a book. (She knows the feeling, the weight of her camera sitting heavily in her lap. Memory card full of images she intends to cherish for a very long time. Records of their life, their new adventures.)

There's a gentle breeze blowing in from the sea, the salty air of the Mediterranean filling her lungs and tossing strands of blonde across her eyes. It's only day two in Malta, but a girl could get used to this. The aimless wandering through ancient streets, a husband who won't shut up about Knights and the Crusades and local legend, and the crystal blue water that greets her every morning. Well, maybe two out of three, anyway. She feels a nudge at her side, sucking her back to reality and the quickly approaching twilight, Nate nodding down at her lap as her phone buzzes in her pocket.

"You gonna get that?"

"Damnit," she mumbles, shoving her camera into his hands as she fishes the phone from her pocket, swiping across the screen and tucking her hair behind her ear. "Elena Fisher— Oh, hello!" Nate's eyeballing her carefully as he tucks his leather-bound journal into his pocket and drapes the camera over his shoulder. He's got an eyebrow raised, his hand twirling, urging her to divulge more information, but she just gently smacks his hand away as she presses a finger to her ear, straining to hear the voice on the other line. "Oh? Tomorrow? And everything is… We're good to go with the— I see. I see. Yes. Okay. Thank you."

Quickly thumbing the screen to hang up, she twists to face him, a mixture of excitement and, perhaps, a little disappointment (just a _little_ — goodbye relaxing vacation) painted across her face. "Well?" He asks, hopeful smile plastered on his face. So she simply shrugs and turns back to the sea.

"Crew arrives tomorrow, network's given us the go-ahead to start shooting."

He's up like a shot, all fiery red in the glow of the fading sun, camera still swinging at his side as he beams down at her. "We got it?"

"We got it! They loved the Malaysia demo."

"You know," he starts, crossing his arms across his chest while leaning back against the rusty green railing behind him, "Part of me still thinks this is crazy."

"Which part?"

"The top half," he smirks at her before going on, "But then part of me knows we can actually pull this off."

"The bottom half?"

"Oh, oh I see," on a chuckle he bends down to grab at her hand, tugging her to his side and twisting her to face the sunset, "Joke all you want, Ms. Fisher," he tuts, snaking his arm around her waist and pulling her against his hip, "But this, us, here… This is all you."

"Malaysia did go pretty well, didn't it?" She hums, letting herself relax ever-so-slightly into his grip, her cheek coming to rest against his arm.

"Well, those cable network idiots sure seem to think so," he agrees, thumb brushing gently at the bare skin of her arm, "And I gotta admit, not getting shot at by thugs with guns is a nice perk."

"It's all about the perks," she laughs, pulling back to look up at him, "Now come on, I'm starving. Treat me to something nice for all my hard work."

"I think I saw a nice little kebab stand back there," he's already tugging her away from the vista and back to the quickly filling streets of evening travelers, "What are your opinions on shawarma?"

"Nate," she groans, tugging his hand as he leads her into the twilight glow of streetlamps and cobblestone, "You're ruining the moment!"

"Oh? Are you in more of a fish n' chips mood?"

"Torture," she sighs, letting her fingers slide between his as they make their way through the crowded city streets, "You're torturing me."

She can't help but notice the shit-eating grin plastered across his face as they eventually make their way down a series of stone steps to an understated-looking Maltese restaurant. All soft lighting on the edge of a marina, in the shadow of a looming stone sentry box at the top of a small peak. She'd describe it all as old world meets new world, centuries-old stonework wrapped around glass and glowing fish tanks that play home to tonight's main courses. As she's about to jab her thumb into his ribs and tease him about playing his cards right tonight, she's interrupted by her phone buzzing. Again.

"Crap," she sighs, sliding the phone from her pocket as he cocks an eyebrow at her, "Go, go," she shoos, "Get the table, I'll be in in just a sec."

"Maybe they called the wrong Elena Fisher before," he teases and she's shoving him toward the host stand.

"Order me something expensive."

With a shrug and his hands thrown up in defeat, he wanders toward a young hostess in black while she slips back into the warm night air to bring her phone to her ear. "Fisher." She says curtly, very _much_ annoyed to be back on the phone, especially with her stomach growling as the smell of fresh fish sizzling wafts out the restaurant.

" _El… Elena?"_

The voice on the other end is male, faintly familiar, and definitely not the network executive's assistant who had called earlier (female, British, mousy.) "…Yes? Who is this?"

There's a long pause, and she can't help but feel her chest grow tight, her pulse quicken. Like the mystery voice on the other line is about to deliver some kind of soul-crushing news. Like she should be steeling herself for some tragedy. It's absurd, but it's where her head goes on instinct. Knowing full well her husband is only a few hundred feet away, most likely fiddling with his flatware and attempting to order a glass of wine in stilted Maltese, she can't stop herself from suddenly being back in a hotel room in Yemen. Hearing the words _"pirates"_ and _"shipwreck"_ and _"no sign of survivors."_

She hears the man on the line puff out a breath, some kind of nervous, soundless chuckle, before he goes on, _"It's Sam. Sam Drake."_

Well, shit.

That feeling in her chest, the tight, pinched, _something bad is about to happen_ sinking feeling is suddenly quadrupled and now she's imagining her brother-in-law pinned down as goons with machine guns spray the side of a crumbling building. So sue her, it's where her mind goes as he nervously clears his throat on the other end. Sounding not at all in danger or like he's in the middle of a firefight. But damnit if that's not what she imagines. "Sam?" She lowers her voice, as if Nate could hear through glass and mortar and suddenly appear at her side. But he doesn't of course, though she still tucks herself into a dark corner at the side of the dimly lit building. "What's wrong?"

He pauses again, but this time it's shorter and he's letting a small chuckle puff into the mic, _"I, uh, why would something be wrong?"_

"Well," she begins, feeling her mouth draw into a tight, crooked smirk, "For starters you called _me,_ not Nate. And secondly, you're a Drake."

" _Fair enough,"_ he laughs, before going on hesitantly, _"Actually… I wanted to talk to you. Just you."_

"Well that's ominous," she deadpans, peeking out of her shadow to eyeball the door to the restaurant. Still no curious husband with superhuman hearing. Her nerves calm just slightly, even if the phone call is still off the scale on the unexpected weird shit-o-meter. Not that she doesn't _know_ Sam, it's just… Their only time spent together was gunning their way through hordes of armed mercenaries and that's probably not normal in-law quality time (though she's fully aware of what she's married into. What's normal anyway?) Still, she isn't exactly used to getting evening phone calls from said in-law.

" _Nathan isn't around, is he?"_ Sam asks cautiously, and Elena laughs out loud because anyone listening in to this conversation would definitely get some weird ideas.

"He's currently sitting inside of a very charming restaurant waiting for his wife to get off the phone, _why?"_

" _No, I—"_ He cuts himself off, _"You guys just did a job in Malaysia, right? It went well?"_

"Why do I get the feeling this isn't just small talk?"

" _I know you guys are in Malta now, Nathan said a shipwreck job off the coast. World War One-era, isn't it?"_

"Uh huh…"

" _Well, it's just… I got this lead. Something possibly big, just off the coast of Sardinia, and I need someone I trust, someone who won't dick me over on this and I—"_

But before he can continue, she's already sighing, rubbing at her temple and leaning herself against the cool stone, "Why, of all people, would you call me? Isn't this something that the dynamic duo of Drakes should be discussing?"

" _Well,"_ he begins, slowly, before going on, _"I didn't want to ask Nathan, I wanted to ask you. The last time I dragged him into something, I nearly got him killed and almost ruined his marriage. And I just thought, you know, I should ask you. Avoid all that… Shit."_

Elena can very much feel the beginnings of a headache start to settle in the back of her neck. Because for all his well-meaning, good intentions, Sam is still going about this all wrong. And now she's the one in the position to try and set things right. "Look, Sam…"

" _Before you say anything,"_ he cuts her off, his voice raised just an octave higher. He sounds desperate and it's evident in his tone. _"It isn't a dangerous job. Just a dive and retrieve, and I need a partner I can trust going down with me. No war lords, no mercenaries. Just an old wreck with some valuable cargo."_

"Sam." She stops him, her head falling back against the building and eyes searching up at the pinpricks of starlight dusting the night sky. Closing her eyes she sucks in a big breath of salty sea air, "First of all, Nate is the only one who jeopardized anything— life, marriage, so on. Not you. And, honestly, that's something we've worked through and moved past. And secondly," here, she pauses, opening her eyes to find the thin sliver of the moon peaking out through misty clouds overhead, "I'm not in the business of making my husband's decisions for him either. Look, I know you mean well, and I appreciate that. But… The three of us? We're family. And anything you think both Nate and I need to know, or be a part of, you gotta come to us, talk to us, together. None of this cloak-and-dagger stuff."

There's silence on the other end of the line and for a moment she wonders if she's lost the connection. But then she hears him clear his throat, _"No… You're right, I'm sorry. It's just. Well… I'm not very good at this. I don't really know how to do the_ family _stuff anymore."_

She smiles sadly at his confession and relaxes a bit against the wall, "Email me the details, Nate and I will look it over tonight. But we're pretty married to our camera crew and network funding, so any side quests are gonna have to be on the QT, you know?"

" _You guys lock down the deal?"_ His tone changes at once and instead of a timid, unsure man poking around in uncharted waters, he's suddenly alight with excitement.

"Locked, loaded, set to shoot this week." She can't help but feel awash in pride. Proud of what they'd accomplished, how far they'd come, and what new adventures lay ahead, "Thanks to you, of course."

" _I have no idea what you're talking about."_ He says with full cheek, laughing as she shakes her head toward the mossy cobblestone beneath her feet. That's when she hears it, footsteps coming toward her. A somewhat baffled, _"Elena, what the hell is taking so long?"_ muffled by the sway of the tide in the harbor and the wind rustling through the trees.

"That's my cue," she says into the phone, earning an understanding, _"Enjoy your dinner,"_ from the other end. "Shoot me the email, and we'll take a look okay?" Sam agrees, says his goodnights, and they both hang up just as Nate approaches. Face all twisted into an annoyed, confused expression, one hand clutching a glass of what looks like it could be merlot. What she _hopes_ is merlot. And he expectantly waves his free hand toward her.

"What?" She asks as she stuffs her phone back into her pocket and reaches for the wine glass. But he's quick, pulling it back and cocking his head to the side to scowl at her.

"What _what?_ I'm starting to get pitiful looks from the waiters. I think _they think_ I've been stood up. Wait— _have I been stood up?"_

She just clicks her tongue between her teeth and snatches the glass away from him, taking a quick, defiant sip, "A little stewing in your own juices is good for you."

"Clearly you never went to Catholic school," he says as she pushes past him with a smile, his footsteps falling in behind her as he goes on, "I'm pretty sure that's a cardinal sin." She finally lets herself laugh as he reaches around her to pry open the front door of the restaurant. The incredible smell of aromatic spices, fresh cooked seafood, and steaming heaps of pasta hitting her in a sensory overload. Damnit she was hungry. "So?" He asks as he steers her toward the waiting table, a small setting for two against a glass railing overlooking the murky harbor water below. "Are you going to tell me about your mystery phone date or do I have to _stew_ some more?"

"No," she says as she settles down at the one untouched setting, his own glass of wine across from her already half finished and his napkin crumpled into a heap. Flatware askew, having been fiddled with. "No more stewing. It was your brother."

"Sam?"

"Unless you've got _another one_ lurking in the shadows somewhere."

Giving his face a quick scrub, Nate settles back in his seat and looks up at her, "Well? What's the crisis?"

She only shakes her head through a smirk, "That's what I asked. But no, no crisis. Just a dive he wants some help with. I told him to send us the details and we'd take a look. He says it's legit."

"Why would he call you?" He begins as she plucks the evening's menu from its perch on the table.

"Weird, right?" Her fingers tap against the paper, the mussels catching her eye, before she looks up at him, sighing, "He was trying to… Make up for Madagascar, I think. Asking for my permission. It was sweet, if not… Completely missing the mark."

He laughs a bit at that, finally easing forward and propping his chin up with his fist, "I can only imagine what other surprises are in store for us tonight."

Her mouth quirks in a knowing smile and she studies his face with a soft, wistful look. "Yeah," she says gently, watching as he takes a slow pull at his glass of wine, "I can only imagine."


End file.
